


Mr. Mulder I thru V

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-31
Updated: 1999-12-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:31:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Spoil the rod and spare the child ... no, wait! Is that how it goes?





	Mr. Mulder I thru V

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Mr. Mulder Makes Breakfast by Mik

TITLE: Mr. Mulder Makes Breakfast  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: ... let us prove, while we can, the sports of love ... Ben Jonson  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No thanks, against my religion.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But, when I become king ...  
And thanks to my Beta-Kitty, for the recipe for toast.  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop  
If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Mr. Mulder Makes Breakfast  
by Mik

I can't believe it. I mean, I've seen a lot of things in my career; amazing, unbelievable things, but this is beyond X-Files. This is beyond Z-Files. This is ...

He's asleep in the other room. By him, I mean my boss, the bane of my professional existence, the He Who Must Be Avoided. Walter S. Skinner, Anno Domini. He's not merely asleep in my apartment, but, until Nature intruded and insisted I wake up, he slept wrapped around me, the bane of HIS professional existence.

To coin a phrase ... Holy Shit.

Then there's the way he came to be wrapped around me. The fact that for a short period of time the two of us were making a Twinkie; cream filled. I haven't done that since college. I'd forgotten how damned good it feels.

This ... this is going to take some processing -- and at least two cups of coffee. I knew something was biting him yesterday morning when he kept glaring at me. I thought he was angry because I lost another cell phone. Why should he be surprised? It's sort of my annual Rite of Spring. But then, he got up and walked out. No word, no gesture, no explanation. Just exit, stage left.

I had to race him down all the way to the Park. And there he was, off the beaten path, staring at the trees with what, if I were prone to prose of a purple, or even lavender hue, I would have to call a dreamy smile. Went rigid as a stick when I touched him, though. Geesh, Mulder, that should have been clue number two.

I still didn't see it coming when he phoned me up and asked to come over, discuss something 'of a personal nature'. I'm not really sure what I expected, but I had this feeling that my ass was somehow on the line.

And it was!

I never thought I'd say this about Walter Skinner, but he's cute when he's embarrassed. Lots of the old-fashioned hemming and hawing, and glances off into the distance. The tops of his ears turned red. If I hadn't been so terrified that he was about to tell me I was a marked man or that he was a clone, I would have had a good time with all of it. I used to know how to flirt, and he'd have been fun to mess with.

Well, he certainly messed with me. One kiss and I was a marked man. A tattoo on my forehead that reads: I belong to Wally. And for a virgin, he's precocious. I can't wait 'til he gets a little experience. Huh. I guess I'll have to make sure he gets some.

I have to admit, I really didn't expect him to stay the night. I think when the shudders stilled and the rush passed, he was terrified to find himself naked, in his male subordinate's bed. I tried to give him a gracious out. Really, I understood. It's a mind fuck. Of course, I was surprised at the lump in my throat when I said it. It hurt, fully expecting him to grab his pants and run.

But he didn't. He pulled me down into his arms and just held me. Didn't say anything, didn't touch anything. Just held me. And I fell asleep. And there I stayed 'til the man came calling about the horse.

Now, the real question is what he wants to do now. Maybe he stayed last night to be nice, to be kind. Oh, shit. I hate that. I would have preferred him to grab and go.

Okay, maybe he did mean what he said last night. Will he still mean it this morning? Things look a whole lot different in the light of day. He's had his itch scratched, his curiosity sated, maybe now he doesn't need to stay. I can deal with that. I can. This wasn't a romance. I'm hardly a blushing virgin who gave it up to keep him. This was ... what was it? In reality, he came to me for help and I helped him. He stayed the night to say thanks for the help. That's all. That makes sense. Okay.

I'll make it as easy as I can for him. Let him go graciously. I can do this. I've been on both ends of this little scene. The decent thing is to offer him some coffee. Did he ever drink the stuff last night? No. So I don't know how he takes it. Well, I'll just take it to him black and bring sugar on the side.

Coffee doesn't seem like much. Not for him. I could make some ... let's see ... eggs. I could scramble some eggs. I hardly ever burn eggs. And toast. I have a toaster here somewhere. Yeah. This is the decent thing to do. A little breakfast to make the glide out the door easier.

And the newspaper. Give him something to do while he eats so he doesn't have to talk to me. That would probably be more comfortable for him.

Let's see, now. A guy like him probably watches his cholesterol so I can't cook the eggs in butter. Hmmm, olive oil? Where the hell did I get this? Oh, yeah, Scully, Christmas last year. Olive oil's supposed to be good cholesterol. Hell, I'm doing him a favor.

What do you know, I didn't burn the toast. Now ... I've got some jelly here, somewhere. I hope strawberries don't give him hives. Look at this. The eggs turned out okay. Good sex must inspire me.

Um ... good sex would be an understatement, now that I think about it. That guy should turn pro, and get endorsements. Now why did I have to think that? I'm going to start seeing Penzoil emblazoned on that bald scalp of his every time I look at him. Great, now I'll giggle every time I look at him.

Oh. What if I never look at him? What if he decides he can't work with me because of this? Shit, I didn't even think of that when I kissed him. Mulder, one of these days you're going to think things through instead of acting on impulse.

Okay. Coffee, eggs, toast and the newspaper. I'll just set the tray on the bed and scram, let him eat in peace. Then ... I'll go for a run. Leave paper out someplace, let him write a note and go. Yeah. That's the easiest way to do it. Deep breath. Here we go.

Oh, man, he looks good laying there. He's a mountain, he is. And looks pretty fine without those glasses. The man really ought to consider contacts, the women would be crawling all over him.

And that ... that smile. What's he smiling for? "Breakfast." That's it, keep it easy, and unassuming.

"I haven't had breakfast in bed in years. Is this part of gay etiquette too?"

Oh, shit, why did I have to say that? "No. Just trying to be a good host."

Now I've embarrassed him again. "I'm gonna' make sure there are clean towels for you."

"Mulder."

I got so close to the door. "Yes, sir?"

"Sir?" He's laughing! "I think we're a little past 'Sir', don't you?"

I need to swallow and I don't have a drop of saliva in my body. "I guess so ... Walt."

"Mulder, are you ... do you regret ... well, what you said last night about obligations, that goes both ways."

I wish I could see what's going on behind those dark, hot eyes. "Oh, no, no regrets here."

"Then come here."

I really don't want to get within striking distance.

He's smiling again. What a smile. "Yes, si -- Walt?"

Don't flinch, Mulder, don't flinch.

"Any chance I could have you for breakfast?"

Okay, laugh. It's all right. And I think he'll have Pepsi on his chest, and Trojan ... well, we know where he'll have Trojan. "I'll be dessert."

-THE END-

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Mr. Mulder Makes Out  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: If music be the food of love, play on. Shakespeare  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No thanks, against my religion.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But, when I become king ...  
And thank you, beta-kitty, for keeping Beethoven in vogue.  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Mr. Mulder Makes Out  
by Mik

The odds against me being happy have always been incalculable. My history, my nature, my singular purpose, my intense focus, my complete inability to connect with other people, and just the fact that, as a whole, I'm a pretty boring person; all of these things have conspired to keep me alone, and dismal.

I am, however, at this moment, very happy. Someone actually sought me out, wanted to connect with me. And not just any someone. Someone I respect, admire, hell, someone I LIKE. Okay, there are some drawbacks. He is a man. He is my boss. He is the surliest bastard this side of Gandolf, in Lord of the Rings. But, I've never known anyone who can suck face like this.

I think I've actually met someone who could rival me in the focus department. At this moment, I doubt he knows anything exists but me, specifically my body, more specifically my mouth and he's focused on that as if his life depends on it.

I admit, I never saw him as a sexual creature. I saw him as ... well, as Stonehenge; huge, solid, historic and unexplainable. Timekeeper to the gods, or something. That was him, answerable to those men who used his back door with impunity.

Imagine my surprise. This Timex takes a licking and keeps on ticking. I know this because I just got through with a thorough oral exam of his minute hand. In college, the boys used to tease me about the way I was hung, but Mr. Skinner should not feel the slightest bit inadequate. He's a work of art, to be quite honest.

You'd think a man who spends his days riding a fence, being a paper jockey, would be finding soft spots as he sneaked up on the half century mark. Not this guy. Evidently, no one has served notice on his body that he isn't twenty seven anymore. He's hard and lean and muscular and, aside from some rather grim markings on his middle, flawless. Some day I'm going to ask about that scar tissue, but not today. I have a feeling those scars go deep, and I don't want to ruin the mood.

Right now I am content, nay ecstatic, to allow him free reign over me. Tomorrow I may wake up and find myself in a padded cell someplace, screaming his name, but this moment is too perfect to despoil.

I really don't know where my anxiety and self-doubt went wrong. I was fully prepared to let him walk out, slip out, sneak out. I had already accepted that I would be dumped. That terror would stalk his memory whenever my name was mentioned. Little did I know that when I set that breakfast tray down at the side of my bed, I was about to become creamed Mulder on toast.

This, evidently, is a good thing.

His touch is remarkably gentle. I think he is accustomed to the feel of a woman beneath him and doesn't appreciate that my body can withstand a little more aggression. My body WANTS a little more aggression. I don't know where this raging erection came from. I would have thought I shot my rounds last night, and my clip was empty. But apparently the little agent fairy came in sometime in the magic moment between midnight and dawn and reloaded for me. And from the pressure on my hip, it is safe to say there's a little AD fairy who makes house calls, too.

He opens his eyes. I am looking up into searing blackness. At this proximity there is no color to his eyes, only heat. He stills. I know what he sees. He sees the eyes of another man, eyes he knows too well, eyes that have seen things they weren't supposed to see. And maybe he doesn't like those eyes looking back at him.

I don't know whether to caress him, soothe him, comfort him or let him pull away.

He pulls away.

His eyes go over my face, one heated sweep I actually feel. His hands loosen from the knots they made with my fingers and he brings one up our bodies.

I steel myself. I expect him to strike out. I deserve it. I led him astray. I caused him to disregard everything he believed in for mind-numbing passion and blinding sensation. I'll watch his fist come. I won't look away.

His hand comes down, finds my cheek, strokes it. His expression has softened to ... wonder? Well, he's bemused, at the very least. I try to smile, I try to find something pithy to say. Nothing. I am struck dumb by the reality of something that was beyond fantasy. If nothing else, he must remember this as the day Mulder couldn't think of a smart comeback.

He says nothing, but zooms in for another oxygen sapping kiss. I'm now dizzy, and reach up to hold onto those incredible shoulders. It's like having my own personal mountain range. The Grand Skinners. Yeah, I like that.

His mouth moves to my neck, his thumb comes over my cheek to stroke my wet mouth. Impulsively, I suck the digit inside. Nothing like what I had earlier, but incredibly erotic in its own way. I bite, I suck, I swirl my tongue around it.

He begins to slide it in and out, soft oral intercourse. Every movement against my lip is like a caress on my cock. I want him again, now, however he wants to have me.

I wind my hands up around his neck, fingering that fine fringe of brown hair. I rub against his hip, hoping he'll take notice. But nothing in the world matters to him at this moment, but his thumb in my mouth and that spot on my neck where he's devouring my soul.

I didn't even hear myself moan that faint, desperate "Please," but he heard it and disengages to raise his head and meet my eyes. He smiles and shifts, sliding downward. I stop breathing. Will he? Could he? Is it possible?

Oh, all saints, his mouth is hot on me, wet and consuming. I'm being drawn into hell, and cannot get there soon enough. If I shut my eyes, red hot embers circle me, make my lungs a furnace. I struggle for cool air, and can only gasp. I feel him sucking, smiling, humming.

He's humming! And I think ... yes, it is. Ode to Joy.

Beethoven did not intend this piece to be played on the love kazoo. Who cares? It is a virtuoso performance. Every note sends a vibration throughout my soul. He is drawing me closer and closer to a triumphant climax. Suddenly, I wish I could speak German. I wish I knew the words to this song. I wish I could sing.

I do sing. My body does. A resounding chorus flooding from me to him. And then, he is silent, I am groaning.

He rolls away from me. I look down at him. He looks ... stunned. He didn't expect that. I should have warned him. I should have but I had been rendered incapable of speech.

I draw away, anxious, fumbling for the towel I dropped on the floor last night. When I look back, he is smiling. No, he is grinning. Walter S. Skinner grins.

And I am happy.

-THE END-

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Mr. Mulder Makes a Mess  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA 

RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. 

SUMMARY: Spoil the rod and spare the child ... no, wait! Is that how it goes? 

FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue. 

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No thanks, against my religion. 

KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17 

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But, when I become king ... 

For my Beta-Kitten at the foot of the mountain. Don't look back, love. You'll make it to the top. 

If you like this, there's more at [http://www.squidge.org/3wstop/ If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.  
](http://www.squidge.org/3wstop/)

* * *

Mr. Mulder Makes a Mess  
by Mik 

I don't know when he left. I fell asleep after he sucked the life out of me and when I woke, I was neatly tucked in and alone. 

It was a blow. A sucker punch. Wrap me in purple and call me Tootsie. I thought he was going to leave when he stayed and I thought he was going to stay when he left. 

And I knew he was gone. I woke up with an unexpected ache. I stayed in bed for several minutes, thinking about it, reliving every moment from him crossing my sill last night to that mind-blowing (among other things) performance this morning. He had me fooled ... completely. All that insecurity, all that endearing doubt, all that tenderness, all that passion. Yeah, he was, as they say, all that. And then he was gone. 

He was tidy about it. My kitchen's never looked so neat. Breakfast dishes rinsed, coffee pot cleaned. No errant pieces of paper laying about. Not a single scrap of paper that could say 'Gee, Mulder, that was swell, but let's get real here, okay?' No 'Thanks for the most wonderful night of my life' written in the dust of my dining room table. Nothing. 

It's stupid to be hurt. I'm a grown man -- emphasis on man. I'm not some schoolgirl with a crush. I'm not some lonely virgin who gave it up to the stranger who chatted her up in a bar. I am a man who's been around, knows the rules, made the choice. I am a man, alone in an apartment too clean to be my own. 

Damn it, Skinner, why did you have to stay this morning? Why did you have to smile and kiss me and do all those things you did? You had me last night. Why didn't you just go this morning? Why bury the hook in my side and then rip it out, leaving the blood and gore of disappointment and disbelief? 

It is pointless to lash out, toss all of the papers and photographs and evidence from my coffee table with a loud grunt and a ferocious sweep of my arms. Pointless ... but satisfying. 

Almost as satisfying as kicking that stack of magazines until they scattered halfway down the hall. Almost as satisfying as pulling an entire row of books from the shelves with a yelp. I begin to tear savagely at the newspaper, imagining Skinner's face, the flesh on his chest ... his broad, strong, bronzed ... damn it. Damn you! Damn you, Skinner, how could you do this to me? 

The kitchen he straightened up is somehow offensive to me. As if this was his 'payment' for the sex. He might as well have left a stack of twenties tucked under the coffee canister, underneath the coupon for toothpaste that I'll never redeem. All right, maybe one twenty. I had to at least be as good as a twenty dollar twink. 

I tug the coupon free and it knocks the canister over, splashing coffee grounds across the counter, and into the empty sink. I start to scrape them toward my open palm, in an absent minded attempt to clean it up, and yet, at the last moment, I merely scoop them over the edge to the floor. I remember him standing here last night, watching me make coffee, trying to convince me that he felt something for me. Well, he got a good feel, didn't he, damn him. 

Angrily, I push the canister back into place. It hits the sugar bowl, sending it careening toward the fridge, where it shatters and sends sugar spraying everywhere. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!" 

I yank open the closet to get the broom, and the mop, the bucket and the can of cleanser come tumbling down, the bucket hitting my foot, the mop hitting my cheek and the cleanser just hitting the floor and adding blue to the brown and white theme I've been creating there. At least that's what it looks like through the stars I'm now seeing. 

"Shit, fuck, damn!" I yelp, hopping on the -- as yet --uninjured foot, scrambling for balance. One of my flailing hands hits the dish rack, and I pull it down with me as I tumble, ass over teacup, into coffee, sugar and Comet. Oh, yes, and broken crockery. "That's it!" I announce angrily. "I have had it." Dragging myself up, I storm out of the kitchen, hit the slick surface of magazine pages on hardwood floor and start sailing the opposite direction. In desperation, I grab for something, anything to keep me upright. My fingernails drag against the wallpaper and all I succeed in doing is adding really ugly peeling patches to my already really ugly wallpaper. 

And I still end up on my ass. 

Okay, now I'm angry. Now I'm pissed as hell. This is all that bastard's fault. He should have left me alone in the first place. He had no right to come in, fuck with me, body and soul, and then clean up the scene of crime on his way out. If my foot didn't hurt so much, I'd kick something, anything. I opt for hitting instead. And add a two by two inch hole in the drywall under the shredded wallpaper. 

And now my fist hurts. 

Adrenaline coursing through me, I race to the bedroom and claw at the bedclothes until they are in a heap on the floor. He slept on those sheets, that pillow. I can never use them again. For one horrific, frenzied moment, I fantasize soaking the whole damn bed in gasoline and setting it alight. 

Oh, grow up, Mulder. So he got a freebie off you. So he played on your feelings. So what. Didn't you ever do that to a woman? No? Sure you did. All men do. So what makes you so bloody special? 

Special? No, that's the problem. I'm not special. But he is. He was. That's it. I made a hero out him. I'm not sure when I did it but somewhere along the way I put him on a fucking pedestal. And guess what? The great god Skinner has a cock of clay. Damn him. 

Well, fine. I won't set the bed on fire. But ... I've got to do something. I grab the pillow and with every ounce of strength in me bash it against the closet door, until the seams burst and the feathers fly. That's not enough. I can feel my rage boiling up inside me. I can still feel his touch, I can still smell him. I have to ... rip the pillow slip. Yes. That's good. That felt good. The sheets. I'll never use them anyway. I'll rip them to shreds just the way I'd like to rip his face to shreds. His face. That sweet, astounded, incredibly tender face. That ... oh, dear God, that smile. 

The sheet won't give as easily as the pillow slip did. Impulsively, I rip at the edge with my teeth, trying to get a good rent started. Suddenly, I'm aware of something. I'm not alone anymore. 

I look up. He's standing there, staring at me. Why is he there? Why is he holding a brown paper bag in one hand and his gun in the other. Why is he there? 

Then I realize what he sees. He's coming into an apartment that must look like the scene of a terrific and violent struggle. Bursting into my bedroom, expecting to find my bloody, lifeless corpse, he instead finds me. Naked, in a feather flurry, coffee grounds stuck to my ass, tearing at a sheet like a feral dog. I don't know whether to laugh, cry or jump out my bedroom window. 

The expression on his face has shifted from fear to incredulity. Slowly, he holsters his gun at his back. "I went for Thai," he says, holding up the bag. 

Lunch. He went for fucking lunch. I just trashed my house over pad thai chicken and smoky noodles. 

"I ..." I look down at the sheet in my hands. "I ..." I let it go. "Never mind." I look up, try to smile. "Let me get dressed and we'll eat, if we can find a couple of plates I didn't break." 

He nods and backs out of the room. 

I drag on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt and come into the kitchen to find he's sweeping up the mess. I gesture weakly. "Thanks for cleaning up earlier. Sorry it was for naught." 

He strokes the broom across the floor slowly. "You thought I left, didn't you?" he asks quietly. 

Busted. I bite my lip and glance away. 

I'm surprised by his fingertips on my chin, forcing me to look at him. "I won't go like that, Mulder." 

Damn it. When did he climb back up on the pedestal? "I ..." I swallow. Who would believe words would fail me twice in one day? I shake my head, pulling free. "If you were half as smart as I've always thought you were, you would get the hell out, now." I make a sweeping motion toward the floor. "I'm prone to tantrums." 

"That's all right," he says in an unexpectedly cheerful voice. "I've seen your ass. I think I'd have a lot of fun putting you over my knee." 

I know the look I give him is one of horror. 

He laughs at me. "Relax, Mulder. I'm here. You aren't going to change that. Okay?" 

"Stupid," I mutter before I can stop myself. 

"I know," he agrees easily. "Live with it." 

Something inside me swells up, cuts off my breath. It's a good feeling. Pride and hope and pleasure and ... I don't know ... happiness? I sigh. 

"Hungry?" 

I eye him, meaningfully. "Yeah, but let's eat first." 

He swings the broom at my butt, playfully. "Give an old man a break, Mulder." 

"Old?" I snort. "You managed twice in twelve hours." 

"Let's just say I was inspired." 

I grin at him. "Okay, let's." I open a cupboard and find two plates. When I look back, he's eyeing the living room, doubtfully. "That's a hell of mess you made, Mulder." 

I wait until he turns to meet my eye and I tell him, seriously, "Let's just say I was inspired." 

-THE END-

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Mr. Mulder Makes a Deal  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: Resolves to deal with none but honest men, he that must leave off dealing ... Fuller  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No thanks, against my religion.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But, when I become king ... 

SKM & MKS 

If you like this, there's more at   
http://www.squidge.org/3wstop/   
If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.  


* * *

Mr. Mulder Makes a Deal  
by Mik 

He's asleep. Stretched out on my lumpy, old futon, shoes kicked off, slacks looking a little worse for wear, glasses neatly folded and setting atop a stack of newsletters from The Lone Gunmen. He looks totally at peace, completely relaxed and as out of place as a rabbi at a Spam factory. 

It's been a hell of a day. Fear, breakfast, sex, sleep, fear, tantrums, lunch, conversation (and more fear), football highlights and now ... 

What now? That's a good question. He's twice indicated he's all for commitment, but am I? Shit, twenty four hours ago, he was my boss, my nemesis, a face and a title and no soul. And now he's sprawled out in front of my television like an old married man. 

I'm not sure I like it. I don't hate it, mind you, but I'm not sure that's what I was looking for when I showed him the way to my bed. Let's face it, I'm not a domesticated animal. He is. He was raised and groomed for home, hearth and country. Me? Well, we all have our own definitions of Spooky Mulder, but no one, man or woman, ever thought of me in connection with rice and rings and matching keys, not even our beloved Scully. 

Scully. Shit, what is SHE going to say about this? I can't tell her. It's that simple. She can never know. If Skinner was meant for Apple Pie and the American Flag, then Scully is Truth and Justice and Forensic Evidence. This will not go down well with her. That girl has Bureau protocol tattooed on her heart. 

Of course, if I can't tell her ... I can't do this. I can't lie to Scully. Not for very long. And never about anything truly vital to me. She knows everything about me. It's MY tattoo: SKM -- Scully Knows Mulder. I can't have secrets. They come tumbling out of my mouth and dance on her shell like ears. 

"Stop pacing." The growl from the futon is low and deep and definitive. There's an unspoken 'or else' at the end. Just the sort of tone to make me pace forever, just to be a prick. 

I do stop, though. I consider the balding top of his head. Slowly, I drop to my knees and kiss him there. What am I going to do with you, Mr. Skinner? 

He tips his head back and looks at me. God, even upside down, he's ... incredible. His eyes are so warm right now, and his smile, those nice white teeth that match a mark on my hip ... "What was that for?" 

I let my fingers stray into that dark brown fringe. His hair, that which remains, is surprisingly thick and soft. "Oh, I don't know." 

He sits up, slides his hands through his hair and looks at his watch. "I should get going," he murmurs. "I need a shower and a change of clothes." 

I feel relief rush over me. And then ... regret. "Yeah. Well, it's been ... um ... nice having you." Nice? Could you be a bit more trite, Mulder? 

He chuckles and gropes for his glasses. "It's been nice having you, too." 

I glance away, just knowing I'm blushing. "Thanks for lunch." 

He chuckles again, levers himself up and ruffles my hair as he passes. "Thanks for breakfast." He gets to the hallway and pauses. I can feel his eyes on me. "Mulder?" 

I look over my shoulder at him. He's frowning at me. "Yeah?" 

He looks at his hands. He looks at the mess I made of my wall. He looks at my fish tank. He looks at me. "You're the expert on gay etiquette. What do we do now?" 

I pull myself to my feet, and come up alongside him. "What do you want to do? There are no rules. I told you, no obligations, no guarantees --" 

He has me by the collar and is pinning me to my battered wall. "Come home with me," he whispers. 

'Home'. 'With me'. I swallow. "What for?" I make myself say lightly. 

"Just to be with me." 

Did my knees just buckle a bit? "Come on, Skinner," I say in a slightly strangled voice. "Haven't you had enough of me for one day?" 

He catches me by the chin, and sucks my lower lip into his mouth for a moment. Then he smiles at me. "Evidently not." 

At that moment, I'm ready to let him throw me over his saddle and ride off into the sunset, but I force myself to hang on the shreds of reality that I can recognize. I press my hands against that imposing chest. "Skinner, we have to be realistic about this." 

He had begun work on my throat, but now he pauses, and pulls back slightly. "How do you mean?" 

"We can't turn this into a ... a ..." I fumble for words. 

"... love affair?" he suggests. 

"L -- love?" Damn it, that's not fair. 

"Why not?" His dark eyes are serious. "This isn't a game with me, Mulder." The fingers at my collar loosen and one fingertip runs over my chin again. "When I came here last night, I wasn't looking for ..." He pauses. "Well, I'm not sure what I was looking for, for all that. I just knew I needed you. I still do." He backs away from me. "I still do." 

He loves me. No. He cannot love me. He can. He does. He thinks. I think ... I think this is insane. No. Oh, somebody make him stop looking at me like that. "Look, Skinner ..." I look at my hands. 

"Oh." I feel something in him change, retreat. "I see. I'm sorry." He backs away and I look up in time to see something break in him. "I thought that you ..." He gestures toward the hole in my wall. "I'm sorry." He snatches up his jacket from the back of a chair. "Don't worry about it, Agent Mulder. We'll just forget this happened." 

Forget? How the fuck am I supposed to forget what you did? "Wait." This is stupid. I am capable of speech, of coherent, adult exchange of words and ideas. How does he turn my tongue into squirming worms that cannot express thought? "It's not that I don't ..." Come on, one of us has to be able to finish a sentence. "This is just happening so fast. I don't think either of us are prepared to make life changing decisions because of oral sex and Thai food." 

"I am." 

Okay, when a six foot four former Marine tells you he's ready to make commitments, you have to listen. Hell, E.F.Hutton would listen. 

"Mulder, this was a long time coming for me. I didn't come to your door on a whim. You have no idea how much thought --agonizing thought went into that decision." He shrugs. "What I didn't think about was how you would react. First of all, I never expected you to accept my interest. But when you did, I wanted to believe you were willing to accept my ... my ... everything." 

Okay, when a six foot four former Marine's voice breaks slightly on a confession, you have to listen, you almost have to cry yourself. "I think it's pretty obvious how I felt," I tell him quietly, also pointing to the hole in my wall. "But I haven't had time to think everything out, as you have. I see so many obstacles that my natural, cautious nature tells me --" 

"Your WHAT?" he demands, laughing. 

I frown at him. "I do stop and think some things through, although I know you or Scully would never believe it." Mentioning Scully was a mistake. We both fall silent. 

He backs up, gropes for the door. "Well, go ahead, think things through," he offers in a flat voice. "If you decide that you want to pursue this relationship, perhaps you could drop me an email." He yanks the door open and leaves, taking great care not to slam the door behind him. 

What now, Mr. Wizard? For twenty four hours you had the best thing that ever happened to you. And you just pushed it out the door. What next? What does your natural, cautious nature suggest? Playing in traffic? Eating raw eggs? Russian Roulette? Why do you go up on the roof and see if you can fly? "Shit," I say with feeling. 

There is a knock at the door. I wait. It opens. He comes in, puts his jacket down and looks me over, as if trying to decide what it is he thinks he has to have. "Let's try it. No strings. No obligations. No discussions about the future. If in fifty years we find we just can't stand it, no questions no recriminations, all right?" 

"Fifty years? Skinner, you won't be able to tolerate me for fifty days," I toss back. 

"We'll see. I'm a stubborn bastard." 

"Shit, yeah," I agree. 

"Almost as stubborn as you." 

Okay, now he's making me laugh. I stop at once. "Work." 

He makes a very flat, final gesture with one hand. "Doesn't enter into this. Nothing changes there." 

"Scully." 

"Ah, yes," he sighs. "That will be difficult. You couldn't keep this from her, could you?" 

I shake my head. 

"And you think she'd out us?" 

I shrug. "I don't know. I know she wouldn't approve. She's pretty straight-laced, that one." 

"Then I suppose what you have to do is make up your mind which is more important to you." 

I flinch at the suggestion. "That's cold, Skinner." 

"Yes. But I know what I want. It's time for you to decide." 

"That's fair." I bite my lip and consider options. "But I can't do it just like that. I need time to figure it out." 

"That's fair," he echoes. "I'll tell you what. I'll give you a week or so to think about it. Whichever way you decide, I won't hold it against you." He holds out his hand. 

I take it. 

His fingers tighten over mine. "But you should know I intend to lobby very heavily in my favor." 

I grin at him. "Deal." 

-THE END- 

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Mr. Mulder Makes Up His Mind  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind ... Shakespeare  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No thanks, against my religion.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But, when I become king ...

If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop/  If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.  


* * *

Mr. Mulder Makes Up His Mind  
by Mik

Indecisive. That's what I'm being. I've never been indecisive about anything. In fact, I have a reputation for acting first and thinking (read regretting) later. But this ...

Walter Skinner came into my apartment, my head, my bed. And now he wants into my life. My WHOLE life. No ... he wants me to HAVE a life. He wants me to have a ... a ... I can't even say the R word in my head now.

It's ridiculous. It's unthinkable. I don't fall in love with men. I fuck them occasionally but I don't fall in love with them. And I hadn't even fucked one in quite a while.

All right, who do I love? My sister? Whoever ... whatever she is, she doesn't love me. Diana? Oooh, don't go there. Scully? Oh, Scully. I don't just love her, I ... I don't. I idolize her. I put her up on a pedestal a long time ago, and she is unable or unwilling to come down. Frankly, I don't mind. She belongs up there. She's ... she's safe up there.

Safe. That's what I always look for. Secret. Safe. No challenge, no danger. No injury, no revelation, no obligation. Well, he's not safe. Hell, he's my boss.

Stop pacing. I heard him growl that at me earlier tonight and I swear the sound went straight to my balls. Even now I can feel his mouth on me. I can feel his eyes on me. I can feel his body on me.

Water. Get some water, now.

All right, think. What does he want? I'm not sure. He didn't spell it out. But, I think it involves a little bit more than being his fuck buddy. He's sentimental. All right. So am I. Who would have thought ... but I am. I missed him when he left. I felt ... empty.

What do I want?

Water. I want more water.

He gave me a choice. He told me to set my priorities. He wants me but he's letting me decide.

Wait a minute. Rewind. He ... wants ... me ... He wants ME!

I'm pacing again. Why can't I just sit still and review the facts? That's it, look at this clinically, review the evidence. Item: Walter Skinner expressed sexual interest in me. Item: Walter Skinner had a sexual experience with me. Item: It was fucking unbelievable. That man has a body like ...

Water. I need more water.

Where was I? Walter's desire for sexual experience. Right. He wanted it, we did it, it was good. And then he stayed the night. And then he wanted it again, and it was even better. And then he got us lunch. And then ... three times in twenty fours ... I think that's a record for me.

Where is that damn bottle?

Calm down. Get a grip. You're letting hormones overrun brain cells. Heh heh, you said grip.

He wants a Re ... an affair?

Can't be done. And yet ... now that I've had him, how do I give him up?

And when did I turn into Tevye, from Fiddler on the Roof?

It's a simple choice. Him or not him. Go back to what I had, which is nothing, with the people I had it with, which is no one. But, I could look Scully in the eyes every morning, and not feel ashamed.

Ashamed? Why should I be ashamed? He wanted me. He chose me. This big, good looking, intelligent, mean mother ... he chose me. And if Scully doesn't like it ... then she's not the friend I thought she was.

I need another bottle of water.

All right ... what was the question?

I can still feel his touch. He can be pretty tender for a grizzly bear. And being held against him ... bigger, warmer, stronger ... I don't think I've ever experienced that before. And what he did to me, the way he touched me, the way he took over me. He didn't ask questions, he didn't want explanations, he didn't need to blame. How can I give that up?

Okay, Dr. Scully. What would you do?

What would she do? She'd whip out the Bureau Employee Handbook and cite me chapter and verse on fraternization. Comes right after dress code and right before holidays. You will wear a tie and you won't boff your boss on, before or after any federally recognized holiday.

Okay, Dr. Mulder. What do you do?

You go to the bathroom and get rid of some of this water.

His hand ... sliding over my cock, thumbing the head, stroking the shaft. He seemed so amazed by it, as if he'd never seen one before. But he had. Unless he's never casually glanced downward and taken a gander at that M-16 assault weapon riding between his legs.

That right there is a something to consider. Some day, at some point in this Re ... association, he's going to want to fire that weapon in my direction. Am I prepared to bend over and take that monster? Um ... let's see. My ass just clenched and my knees got wobbly. I'll take that as a yes.

Will you please just focus for a minute, Mulder?

What does it come down to? Scully or Skinner. My reputation or my ... happiness? The straight and narrow on my own or the meandering path with Walter? Loneliness or a Re ... romance? Yes. Or no.

Skinner wants me. If Scully's my friend, she'll understand. My reputation was shot to hell years ago. I've never been happy. Loneliness or a big ol' bear to snuggle up with? Well ... gee, that was a hard one. Yes? No?

All those in favor of Mulder having a ... a ... relationship ... raise my hand.

Where's my phone?

"Skinner."

"Mulder."

"Yes, Mulder?"

"Yes, Skinner."  
  


And now Mr. Mulder Makes His Exit.

-THE END-  



End file.
